


Cast Away into the Interdimensional Sea

by saltfire_asura



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, REMEMBER: AU MEANS I CAN BEND THE TIMELINE TO A CERTAIN LIMIT KAY?, Slow Burn, as in ford is a lovesick nerd, lmao my ocs are really mean, reading your own fanfics like :'), seriously wtf am i doing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltfire_asura/pseuds/saltfire_asura
Summary: January the 18th, 1982. The day where everything has gone horribly wrong for a scientist and an engineer. The day where they had been cast away into the interdimensional sea of the multiverse.





	1. His Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> so, I wanted to write something for that AU where both Ford and Fidds get sucked into that portal, so just take my haphazardly written mess here.

Stanford and Fiddleford trudge up to the portal, holding the cream coloured crash-test dummy in their arms. The almost blindingly electric-blue light of the portal’s centre spins around, almost hypnotically. It’s probably the most beautiful thing the two young men ever saw, but it was hard for Fiddleford to appreciate their work with the impending feeling of doom that sits restlessly in the bottom of his stomach. He can feel a dangerous vibe that radiates from the spectacular lightshow of the portal, and it makes him dizzy. He envies Stanford, who feels nothing but joy and pride for their work. Excitement buzzes within Stanford’s rather short stature. Finally, he’ll be able to prove to the world that he’s more than just a waste of space on this earth. That he’s more than just a doddering, abnormal hunk of carbon matter. Stanford also feels grateful to be able to share this achievement with Fiddleford. His best and only friend. He’s glad that he decided to show up for testing day, despite last night’s… _incident_. Despite their occasional bickering, Stanford can’t help but feel a small knot in his stomach every time he’s this close to him. He silently wishes that they were something more… no, that would be weird. Fiddleford wouldn’t… would he? Despite that, Stanford revels in the fact that he and his friend are so close to each other in this present moment.  
Stanford pulls himself from his thoughts when he sees the do-not-cross line blaring from his feet. The portal’s magnetic field gently tugs on their coats and ties. “Ready?” Stanford affirms sternly, loosening his grip on the dummy. Fiddleford nods silently, letting go of it. Stanford lets the dummy float through the centre of the portal, not noticing the strand of rope wrapped around his ankle until it is too late. Until Stanford himself is dragged along with the dummy. He screams, but his screams are only audible for mere seconds, until his head passes through the electric-blue disc of energy that spins rapidly within the centre of the portal. Haphazardly, Fiddleford clenches the rope that is attached to Stanford, keeping him from passing through entirely. “I’ve got you!” Fiddleford cries, but his words are lost to the whirrs of the portal. Even if he was audible, Stanford wouldn’t be able to hear him.  
His head is lost in a flurry kaleidoscope of colours that could give a blind man an eyesore. Impossibly possible shapes and patterns decorate the dark, star-spotted sky that is everywhere. A loud and wholesomely dramatic classical symphony echoes throughout the seemingly infinitely seamless expanse. Asteroids slowly orbit the glowing, amber crown jewel of a photo-sensitive’s worst nightmare. And that crown jewel is Bill Cipher. Stanford’s holy muse, except the truth of Bill Cipher is that he is the bane of all that is holy. Stanford can only, _helplessly_ , watch as Bill’s exoskeleton slowly opens up to reveal the nastiest orifice he has ever seen. An orifice used for the sole purpose to feed on a poor soul’s sanity and being. After feeding, Bill’s exoskeleton closes back up and he returns to his familiar, triangular, yellow form. “SIXEEER, DIDN’T YOU KNOW IT’S RUDE TO ENTER SOMEONE’S HOUSE WITHOUT KNOCKING?” Bill’s screechy voice magnified a million times echoes from everywhere, “BUT, I SHOULD REALLY BE THANKING YOU FOR OPENING THE GATE TO A BETTER WORLD! A WORLD THAT IS GOING TO BE FREE TO _PARTY_ FOR INFINITY!” Stanford’s eyes widen in horror as he realises what he had just done. “You-you _lied_ to me!?” Stanford tries to scream, but his words are muffled by the extremely loud symphony that plays throughout Bill’s realm. His mind is racing, and his vision doubles. What is he going to say to Fiddleford?  
Suddenly, he can feel the rest of his body join his head in indefinite weightlessness. From the corner of his eye, Stanford can see Fiddleford himself floating near him. The blue disc of light that illuminated a small part of this realm has disappeared. Stanford starts to panic and hyperventilate. However, the same isn’t said for Fiddleford, who is bubbling with an anger that muffles the panic and fear. He has long suspected that Stanford had outside help, and he isn’t pleased to find out that his suspicion is true. Angrily, Fiddleford grabs Stanford’s wrist and quickly swims through the zero-gravity expanse to the nearest large asteroid, not even batting an eye to Stanford. Once the duo makes their way to a cave in an asteroid, Fiddleford harshly shoves Stanford to the ground. “I can’t believe it,” Fiddleford bitterly hisses, turning away from the man dressed in a white shirt, dark grey pants and a tan overcoat. “I can’t fucking believe it!” Kneeling on the dusty and rough ground, Stanford clenches his middle in pain. Maroon red stains the tan sleeve of his long overcoat. Hot, salty tears trickle from the corner of his eyes. Stanford tries to wipe them away with his spare hand, but the tears keep falling from his eyes. Then, the most horrifying thing of January the Eighteenth, 1982, is to see blood drip from Stanford’s right eye and onto his six-fingered hand. He can hear every bitter-soaked and anger-filled word that Fiddleford has to say, accompanied with a barrage of swears. Stanford knows this is a rather tense situation, but he silently begs in his head for his assistant to watch the _fucking_ language. He knows that Fiddleford only swears when he furious and livid, and that is just another package of concentrated guilt on Stanford’s chest, put atop the overwhelming fear and unbearable pain of his sustained injury. He wishes that this is a dream and that he could just wake up, but unfortunately, this isn’t the case. Somewhere, in the back of Stanford’s mind, he knows it to be true.  
“Fucking turn around and listen to me!” Fiddleford roars angrily, unaware that Stanford is fully conscious of everything he said. However, Stanford obeys and slowly, shakily turns around to face him. His anger melts away and dissipates into nothing when Fiddleford sees the maroon red stain discolouring Stanford’s hand, arm and right eye. He gasps, rather audibly, and covers his mouth with both his hands. Despite his newfound resentment towards him, Fiddleford finds that he still very much cares for his friend’s wellbeing. “I didn’t… know, I was… t-tricked,” Stanford laments, trying his best to stop tears falling from his red (one considerably more red than the other) and puffy eyes, but ultimately, failing. Stanford seldom feels genuinely upset and guilty, and in the back of his head, he’s glad that it’s seldom because it feels so _terrible_. It’s as if some malicious creature is eating away at him from the inside, from the pit of his stomach, and it only brings him more pain the more he thinks, about his situation, about _anything_ , really. “I—I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry. I-I’ll try to-to fix this, I’m sorry! P-please… forgive me…” Stanford sobs, constantly stumbling over his own words and frequently being interrupted by his hitched breaths and hiccups. How out of character it is for him to be like this. Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines, PhD (PhD, PhD, PhD etc.), the prideful, successful and intellectually superior child of Maud and Filbrick Pines, sobbing on his knees and begging for mercy and forgiveness. It’s almost pathetic, really. Fiddleford ponders about what Stanford claims to say. Would a man like _him_ , so gentle and caring and persevering _really_ be plotting to end the world? With a nacho wearing a stupid little bowtie and top hat, at that? He thinks back to the six months they spent together, working on the portal. Every pleasant memory, every time they debated over something stupid, every long night they spent quintriple-checking equations, every event that went south and crashed and burned, and how they were there for each other. He kneels down in front of Stanford and looks him straight into his eyes, and Fiddleford can see, so clearly, the guilt and pain in his cocoa-brown eyes. Fiddleford rests his hands on his shoulders and sighs. This time, he’s in the wrong, “Stanford… I—I’m sorry.” More tears trickle from Stanford, who remains silent, but slightly happier knowing that his friend forgives him. He suddenly lunges forward, despite his injury, and wraps Fiddleford in a tight, desperate hug, crying into his shoulder. “I-I overreacted,” Fiddleford mutters softly, in a feeble attempt to explain his outburst. “No, no,” Stanford replies, muffled from burying his face into his assistant’s shoulder. He gently breaks away from the hug, lifting his head off Fiddleford’s shoulder, “’S okay.”  
Fiddleford’s electric blue eyes wander down to Stanford’s middle, adorned with a nasty gash soaked in wet blood. He makes quick work of removing his black tie, ignoring Stanford’s befuddled expression. “This should work as a makeshift bandage,” Fiddleford explains, wrapping the long length of fabric around his middle. “As for yer eye…” he scratches the back of his head, “I don’t know what to do about that.” Stanford shakes his head, replying in a soft, but cracked voice, “N-no, don’t worry about it. We should probably find a way out of this place first. Without… y’know, dying.” As much as Fiddleford wants to protest against that suggestion and worry more for Stanford’s eye, he can admit that getting out of Bill’s realm is priority. Quickly, preferably. Fiddleford gets up on his feet and offers a hand to his friend, who takes it without hesitation.  
From the literal centre of the Nightmare Realm, Bill impatiently scans over the starry expanse of the Nightmare Realm. He knows that Stanford and his assistant are somewhere here, he just doesn’t know _where_ exactly. And that’s exactly why he has henchmaniacs. “SIXER AND HIS PET IDIOT WANNA PLAY HIDE AND SEEK!” Bill shrieks playfully, his voice irritatingly echoing throughout the infinite fabric of the realm. His shrill voice lowers to a dangerously serious tone, “FIRST ONE TO FIND THEM AND BRING THEM TO ME GETS THEIR OWN GALAXY.” Skitter growls and shrill shrieks of monsters and ghouls follow Bill’s statement as his henchmaniacs hurry off to hunt Stanford and Fiddleford down. Bill eagerly watches his minions become smaller and smaller until they’re little dots against the deep, dark blue of the Nightmare realm. He starts to fantasise about what he’ll do to his puppets once he gets his hands on them. Perhaps, kill one of them, and feed on the other’s misery. And it won’t be long before someone will stumble upon that portal, in their basement, and fire is up again. Let it charge, until it’s ready, and finally, Bill will have that whole reality to himself. He fantasises further, imagining how he’ll make that measly hunk of rock, earth and water _better_ , _fun_. Bill lets himself get so wrapped in his fantasies, he barely notices Fiddleford and Stanford dart past him.  
Fiddleford glides, swoops and swims gracefully past and through asteroids with ease, Stanford tightly holding his arm, trailing behind him. Every so often, Fiddleford looks back to his friend to make sure he’s okay, which he is, physically, at least. Fiddleford’s mind wanders, as he tries to pinpoint what he’s going to do about their situation. How would they get home? How would they survive long enough to do that? How would they survive at all? These are all questions that blare in his mind, but he doesn’t expect for them to be answered anytime soon. “Fidds!” Stanford’s shriek pulls him out of his thoughts. His eyes dart to where Stanford is pointing, which, in this case, is a large, colour-shifting lard-creature. Its many eyes have little to no white in them, only charcoal-black irises and a thirst for death lies in them. It hones in on the two young men as they start to double back to another asteroid. But Stanford doesn’t move, floating perfectly still, almost… petrified, staring at the insult-to-life as it opens its mouth wide open, its shark-like rows of teeth rearing their ugly heads. “Stanford, what on Earth are you doing!?” Fiddleford sputters, tugging on his hand. There is no response, nothing but the monster’s growls and the loud symphony that continues to play to answer the engineer. Without a second thought, Fiddleford drags Stanford with him through the sea of weightlessness as quickly as he possibly can, not stopping for even a millisecond. He dives into a small crack of a huge asteroid, a crack that leads to a spacy, dark and damp cave that the monster dives right past. Diving into that thin crack had Fiddleford and Stanford landing in a rather awkward position. But Fiddleford quickly dismisses the fact that he’d landed on top of Stanford, more concerned about survival more than anything else. He cups Stanford’s face in his hands and watches as the lime clouds in his eyes slowly dissipate. When he comes to his senses, Stanford starts coughing and sputtering, as if he just resurfaced from being underwater for so long. “Stanford, Stanford, Stanford,” is the only word Fiddleford mutters repeatedly, rather quickly, brushing a hand through Stanford’s brown hair as his coughing subsides. “I-I-I—that… I…y-you?” Stanford babbles lubberly, almost incoherently. He can hear how illegible his own words (if they even qualify as words at all) sound to him, he can’t imagine what they must sound like to Fiddleford. “Shh, slow down, darlin’,” Fiddleford murmurs, gently brushing Stanford’s frazzled hair out of his face. “I-it was like-like the Gremloblin ah-all over again,” Stanford tries to answer again, trying to keep the rate of his speech at a speed that intelligible, but his panic finds a way to reduce his words up to and beyond comprehension. “I-I couldn’t—I couldn’t move! It-it-it-it was t-terrible.” Fiddleford gently pulls Stanford up, and embraces him in some attempt to calm him down, “I’ve got ya, yer safe.” Stanford wraps his arms around Fiddleford in return, murmuring something about not being able to be truly safe ever again. Hushed incoherent sounds reverberate from deeper within the cave, interrupting the shaken duo. However, the sounds didn’t sound menacing. They sounded… scared. “Stanford, let’s check deeper into this cave,” Fiddleford suggests. Stanford nods, deciding against arguing with him. Every time he shunned Fiddleford’s suggestions, it’s always, _always_ gone south. The pair creep deeper into the cave. Fiddleford, not looking where he is walking, trips and tumbles down a short, but steep ledge, pulling Stanford down with him. When they land onto the ground below (with nothing less than a handful of newly formed bruises), they find a shivering group of intergalactic refugees huddled around a strange purple fire, who notice their presence almost instantly. Their leader, a hairy mix between a guinea pig and a pirate, beckons the pair closer to them in a welcoming manner. Fiddleford walks over to the group with trepidation, Stanford trailing close behind him. The creatures took turns in explaining their tale. They explain to Fiddleford and Stanford that they were apparently asteroid miners whose ship was sucked into a dimensional wormhole, and they found themselves lost in the Nightmare Realm like them. A green-scaled, tall and lanky alien with big eyes with almost no white and frills that decorate the top, sides and back of his head with his arm in bandages asks the pair what their story is. Stanford loathes to explain his backstory with Bill, covering his eyes and curling in on himself, leaning against Fiddleford, whimpering. Fiddleford runs his hand through Stanford’s hair as he explains to the asteroid miners that Bill tricked them into building a portal to let him into their dimension. When Fiddleford offhandedly utters the word Bill, the aliens shriek and cover their ears as if he had said something obscene, leaving him confused. The leader of the aliens explains to the pair that Stanford’s, quote-unquote _Muse_ is actually one of the most feared beings throughout the entire Multiverse. They tell him the many legends and theories that circle around Bill Cipher, ranging from how he got his powers to where he came from in the first place. “You see, humies, Bill Cipher took over this place as a hideout for him and his crazy band of cronies, but because rules and physics don’t exist nor apply here, this place is going to either self-destruct or get terminated by an interdimensional superior,” the guinea pig/pirate alien leader reveals to the pair. “That answers why he wanted you to build that portal so badly,” Fiddleford ponders, looking down at Stanford, who is fidgeting with his hands. His eyes remain focused on the magical glittering purple fire. He notices Stanford becoming increasingly more agitated as time passes (on the contrary, time is dead in this dimension). A life-form that looks like a cross between a bug and a gnome feels sceptical towards them, but takes pity on the earth men. The group decides to give Stanford and Fiddleford some rations and a dimension translator. Fiddleford nods as he accepts the donations, incredibly grateful for it. “Is—what’s the chance we-we’d be able to get home?” Stanford asks the group with trepidation. So many pairs of eyes watching him… He feels queasy. “Without a decent Class Four portal device, you’re essentially lost in the multiverse forever,” the green-scaled alien answers without a second thought, “Although, you can jump dimensions through wormholes that pop up suddenly.” The same alien points to the wide opening behind him, leading back outside to the rest of the Nightmare Realm, “Statistics say that a handful’s gonna open up there in a couple of seconds.” Surprisingly, Fiddleford and Stanford didn’t notice that opening before. The two humans bid their goodbyes as they float over the group of wormholes nearby, casting their fates to the wind to discover what new and strange worlds await them. Strange worlds that no being of their species before has ever witnessed. “Those humies won’t last a week,” ζβ02 states to his shivering band of refugee, still grinning from waving them goodbye.


	2. Frosty Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, second chapter's up. Note; updates aren't consistent, so bear with me. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy the second chapter!!

Violet dyed bark of tall and thin trees, with ropes of ice-blue leaves that hang from its branches, planted sparsely in the soil of the planet. A planet so far from its sun, that water stays frozen in time. A thick blanket of indigo tinted snow covers the shivering soil. The peaceful and quiet sounds of native animals grazing and chirping completes the serene scene. The atmosphere smells clean, fresh of the oxygen that allows many species to live. Suddenly, a wormhole opens up in the sky, expelling two humans from it before disappearing. “Eugh,” Fiddleford groans, lifting his head up from the snow, “That’s… disorientating.” He quickly recaps himself on the events of the last… however long it’s been.

_Stanford!_

He pushes himself to stand up, and quickly finds Stanford, lying face down in the snow. “C-come on, Ford, get up,” Fiddleford frets as he pulls his friend up. Stanford puts in no effort to stand, more focused on trying to keep the rising bile in his throat from reaching his mouth. He quickly darts to the nearest bush when he feels that he can’t keep the sickening mix of stomach acids and digested food down in his stomach, Fiddleford closely trailing behind him. “Stanford, are you okay?” He doesn’t reply, fearing the high probability of throwing up sick on his friend. “T-talk to me!” Fiddleford begs him. Stanford shakes his head as a response. Finally, his nausea gets the better of him, and he vomits a little, majority of whatever he had for dinner regurgitated and mixed with bile landing on Fiddleford’s pant leg. “I-I s-s-orry,” Stanford’s feeble and off-coloured apology to his friend was all he could muster before quickly turning away to remove the rest of the contents in his stomach, which could potentially add up to _not just_ breakfast, lunch and the whatever remained of dinner, but _yesterday’s_ breakfast, lunch and dinner as well. Fiddleford’s face falls flat in 0.2 seconds, unimpressed. He, despite the frustration of having his friend’s sick on his leg, attempts to soothe him the best he could, but failing to keep his salt from leaving his mouth, “That’s it, let it all out. God, yer lucky I care about ya, ‘cause I’m feelin’ pretty fuckin’ nauseous myself.” That was a bit rude. “I’m sorry. That was mean.” Fiddleford is lucky _himself_ that Stanford point of focus was more on expelling the contents of his stomach than his insensitive comment. “Okay… I-I’m done,” Stanford breathlessly murmurs, leaning back into Fiddleford’s lap, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Fiddleford assures him. Stanford makes himself stand again, and takes the chance to survey the environment. Fiddleford follows his lead and starts to explore the clearing they landed in. He comes across a decayed skeleton that strongly resembles that of a human. However, it is the shiny axe that lies with the corpse that captures Fiddleford’s interest. He picks it up and swings it against a tree, wedging the tool deep into the wood. Despite the axe’s stubbornness, Fiddleford succeeds in pulling the axe out of the tree. “Stanford!” he cajoles, lifting the axe up into the air, “I found an axe!” Stanford’s reply has even more joy to it, when he proclaims that he’d found shelter. Without a second thought, Fiddleford runs to where Stanford had called from, to find a cave entrance leading into a shabby, makeshift shelter. An empty and doused campfire sits in the centre of the small cave, in front of a slab of smooth rock with a couple of expedient pillows made out of an alien fern, which the pair assume is a bed. Refined planks of wood sit in the right corner. A couple of chests sit against the left of the cave, which Fiddleford makes a beeline for. He rummages through the chests and finds items that will surely improve their chances of survival. “Some type of raw meat, some sort of large fruit or berry…” Fiddleford lists as he removes the contents from one chest, “Ooh! A gun.” Stanford’s face contorts to express concern, “Why are you so excited about that?” Fiddleford shrugs in response, before firing the gun into the ground to test it. Its red-hot laser bullet leaves a decent mark in the stone ground. Stanford shrugs it off, sorting through the second chest. He finds a lighter, a metal dagger, a large stick, and a small, golden clock. The clock is what eludes the pair. Instead of the twelve digits around the edge like the clocks they’re used to, there is sixteen. Half the background of the clock is painted with a cream colour, the other half in a deep blue. The clock’s hands tick at the same speed as Earth clocks; sixty seconds for a minute, sixty minutes for an hour. The clock currently reads _5:27_. “So, this planet has a sixteen-hour cycle, and sundown, I assume, is six o’clock,” Stanford deduces, brushing his thumb over the glass. He looks outside, noticing the daylight being a lot bluer and darker than before. “I’m gonna go out, try and find some more wood for a fire,” Fiddleford surmises. He grasps the axe, “I’ll be back before sundown. I promise.” Stanford, despite everything his mind blares at him, he doesn’t protest. He only retires to the bed near the back and watches as Fiddleford leaves, taking out the scarf Fiddleford had gifted him back in college, except, it’s grown to more of a blanket than a scarf. And he waits. He waits, lying down on his side, wrapped in his blanket-scarf.

_6:13_. Fiddleford has not returned, and with thirteen minutes (and counting) since sundown, Stanford starts to fret. He tries to calm down, telling himself that Fiddleford will indeed return soon. However, the planet’s night has other plans. Unintelligent groans resonate from outside, slightly disturbing the scientist. More disturbing, is that the source of the groans starts to pile inside. The decayed and rotting carcasses of miscellaneous species could not be more alive at night, and they could not be more unsettling for Stanford as they slowly crawl their way to him. He scrambles for the gun on the ground beside the bed, haphazardly shooting down the small hoard of the undead. But, they do not fall, still continuing to trudge closer and closer to him. If he weren’t injured, cold, hungry or sleep deprived, he would be able to think more clearly about his situation, but the odds aren’t in Stanford’s favour at the moment.

And it is time to change those odds.

Stanford slaps himself in the face, really hard, to try and make himself think clearer (he had read somewhere that a good slap to the face can alleviate the effects of hysteria, _being cold, tired and hungry is like hysteria, right?_ ). He sorts through the little inventory he has, with only three other items in his possession. A clock, a lighter and a stick. _Great_ , he thinks to himself. Stanford decides to bet his chances of survival on fire, lighting the tip of the stick aflame, a small, sea-blue flame flickering away. The undead carcasses don’t react in any way, only continuing their short journey to maul the living into shreds, which in this case, is poor, _poor_ , Stanford Pines. The scientist sets the closest decaying organic matter alight, and the undead creature burns in the most spectacular way. The fire, now burning at a hotter, sky-blue, spreads at an insane rate, completely covering the first (it’s safe to say) zombie in flames. Its appendages flail around, setting its nearby compatriots on fire, and they burn to their (second) death. Stanford’s whole face brightens at this revelation, realising that he has a way out of his tricky situation. However, Stanford’s joy is short lived, when some of the monsters remain alive. He quickly gets to work in setting them all on fire, and soon, the cave is littered with ashes of the withered. Noticing the wooden planks in the corner, Stanford barricades the entrance with them. He lays back down on the stone slab for a bed, but he has no intention of sleeping. Any chance of falling asleep he had before had been obliterated.

_7:54_. Pounding. Pounding on the wooden barricade Stanford had pitiably strung together. He wraps himself in his blanket-scarf, turning away from the cave opening. Finally, after a loud _crash_ , the barricade had come down. Fiddleford ecstatically started to blabber as he dumped his treasures onto the ground. He sets the campfire ablaze, a shimmering icy blue fire dancing as the centrepiece of the cave. “Stanford! I found a load of cool loot from this clearing about thirty feet west! It had all of these… hey, are ya okay?” Fiddleford stands nervously a couple of metres from the bed, shuffling his feet. Stanford, still wrapped in his blanket-scarf, only mutters, “You said you’d be back before sundown.” Fiddleford scratched the back of his head, chuckling awkwardly. “Gee, I-I’m sorry about that, I just got a little held up,” he replies, not fully grasping the weight of how serious his friend is being. “I thought you were lost or hurt‼ Or worse‼” Stanford cries, unbounding himself from his blanket-scarf. “I was only a little late.”  
“You were gone for two hours! I had to fight a hoard of zombies an hour ago!” he’s now on the brink of tears. Fiddleford doesn’t answer, all the words he knows disappearing at the most inconvenient moment. Stanford quickly jumps forward and hugs Fiddleford tightly, not wanting to let him go. Fiddleford begins to notice his friend’s increasingly jumpy and emotional state. He is fascinated by this other side of the Stanford coin. The toll of being cast away into the interdimensional sea has been much worse for him than it has for Fiddleford, and he finally starts to notice this. He looks for something to take his friend’s mind off the stress. “Maybe ya should lie down, I’ll re-barricade the entrance.” Stanford nods, and lies back down on the slab of rock, covering himself in the blanket-scarf. After making quick work of the barricade, Fiddleford sits down next to Stanford, brushing a hand through his hair. “Hey, isn’t that the scarf that I gave ya for yer birthday back in college?” Fiddleford beams, noticing the blanket-scarf for the first time, “Although, I thought it was more of a scarf than a blanket.” Stanford’s face flushes into a colour that is more pink than peach. He smiles fondly at his blanket-scarf, tugging on it gently, “Y-yeah, I—uh—I knit and sew extra fabric onto it when I’m stressed.” Fiddleford gingerly inspects Stanford’s handiwork. He runs his fingers over the seams where extra fabric had been added. The seams are barely visible, making the blanket-scarf seem almost seamless. He notices how the fabrics blend together, how they fit next to each other like perfect pieces in a puzzle. The start of the fabric, a hand-knitted fiery-red scarf, had gradually turned into a blanket that phased through every conceivable colour of the light spectrum, ending with a soft violet. Patterns printed in shades, from black all the way to white, and every possible grey in between, decorate patches of the blanket. The blanket fades between gradient colour and patterns of shapes with more sides and curves than the simple rectangle. The elegance of how everything on the blanket fits seamlessly took Fiddleford’s breath away. “It-it looks… I don’t have the words for it,” Fiddleford exclaims, his breath taken away by Stanford’s craftsmanship. “You-you’re just saying that,” Stanford argues, although weakly. He bows his head, keeping his eyes off everything but the fingers on his fidgeting hands. Fiddleford guffaws, waving off Stanford’s comment, “I’m serious! It’s… subjectively the best thing you’ve ever made.”

Stanford looks down the icy blue fire that burns before them, sighing quietly. The colours that flicker before his eyes reminds him of what he thought was going to be his magnum opus. The fire that engulfed his hand might not have burned when he shook it, but Stanford’s definitely feeling the fire now. “The portal was supposed to be the best thing I’d ever made,” Stanford blurts, surprising himself with how loud that came out. He starts to sob again, but attempts to keep it quiet, not wanting to be a burden. His shoulders slump forward, curling on himself as if his spine has buckled against the metaphorical weight on his shoulders, “L-look where that got us.” He sees a maroon drop of fluid fall from where he approximates his right eye to be and splatter onto the bluish-grey stone, the stone soaking up the thick fluid like a sponge. “Oh no, your eye’s bleeding again!” Fiddleford squeaks, gently lifting Stanford’s head to face up towards him. He remembers the canteens filled with spring water he had gathered, “I’ve got something to clean yer eye up.” Taking care to not hurt Stanford, Fiddleford eases himself from the bed and grabs one of the canteens. He sheds his lab coat and rips a huge chunk from it, wetting part of the fabric with the spring water, rushing himself and spilling some water over himself. He sits back down, beside Stanford, gently covering his eye with the damp, cold cloth. “I’ll get ya some food,” he affirms, careful to not let his voice crack under the insane pressure they’re under at the moment, “Hold this against yer eye.” Stanford sighs quietly, holding the cloth up to his eye washes a light bout of nostalgia over him. Countless memories of holding an ice pack or a bag of frozen peas against his face as a child after being mercilessly beat up by the school bullies. The only bullies that are mercilessly beating Stanford up now are his follies and an almighty triangular demon. “I found some sort of deep-blue squid meat, all cut up an’ everythin’, sealed in a plastic baggie along with a small box of assorted food items. Should last us a couple of Earth months if we ration,” Fiddleford blabbers as he boils the squid meat in a pot above the fire, taking caution as to not burn himself. He talks for as long as he’s got something to say, doing his absolute best to keep Stanford’s mind off the stress. He promises himself that he won’t crack, he won’t break down. Not yet, anyway.

The open flame burns hotter than a regular campfire, heating the squid soup quicker than Fiddleford had anticipated. He uses the soup ladle that came with the pot and spoons some of the soup into a bowl, not overfilling it so he doesn’t risk spilling the boiling liquid over himself. Fiddleford rests the bowl next to Stanford, who shakes his head to refuse, “You eat it. Don’t...”  
“Don’t be stubborn, Ford,” Fiddleford sternly retorts, forcing Stanford to sit up and consume his meal. Defeated, Stanford elegantly lifts the bowl and sips the soup from it. He shoves the squid into his mouth whole and chews. He didn’t realise how hungry he is until now. As soon as he swallows, he can feel a sudden jab at his stomach. A loud, blood-curling scream that sounds all too well like his own echoes from inside his head. Does the ground always move? He tries to move, but it’s as if his muscles had gone stiff, unmovable. Triangles, of yellow and red, flash before his eyes, and they dance around him, but they dance only around the edges of his vision. The ground below his feet spins like a carnival ride gone wrong. The intense feeling that Stanford is being watched hits him like a tidal wave. Glowing, yellow eyes with ghastly cat-like pupils flicker in and out of visibility against the blue-tinted stone walls. He knows he’s been sitting, but his sense of touch keeps telling him that he’s sinking into the stone, or that he’s floating above it. Hell if his nerve receptors know what it’s talking about.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford cries, pulling Stanford from wherever the hell he was to reality. He’s gripping Stanford’s shoulders, a panicked expression etched ever so clearly on his face. Stanford holds his head, soundlessly groaning. He notices the bowl on the ground, the watery liquid spilt all over the stone. “I-I-I’m sorry,” Fiddleford babbles, finally starting to give way and crack under pressure, “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, I…” Stanford shakes his head, “I’m fine.” His words are quiet and stone-cold, but _soft_ , silencing the babbling engineer. He leans forward and gently wraps himself around Fiddleford in a hug. “I was wondering when you were gonna crack,” he whispers, resting his head on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “How did you manage to keep it together for all this time,” Stanford mumbles, abolishing whatever dignity he had left that let him stand proud. There was nothing to stand and fight for anymore, except their own lives (or whatever would be left of their lives to salvage when—no— _if_ they ever get home). Two young men stuck dimensions away from their homeworld, _what a way to go out_ , Stanford muses. He clears his throat, “I lost it the minute we got stuck.” Fiddleford returns Stanford’s gesture, resting his arms atop his shoulders. “That’s exactly why I didn’t go bat-shit crazy when we flew through that machine,” Fiddleford mutters. He smiles when he hears a suppressed laugh from his friend. “I was trying to keep it together f-for _you_. We’d be a moot point if we’re both crazy.”

_I love you, too_ , nearly escapes Stanford’s lips. Maybe he is indeed crazy for almost uttering the sentence. If he is crazy, there’d be nothing to lose. He can’t bring himself to say it, not yet, anyway. “I’m sorry for being such a nuisance,” Stanford laments. He chuckles dryly at how useless he’s been. “I’m a thirty-year-old man, and I’ve been sobbing incoherently like a fourteen-year-old girl. There’s definitely something wrong with me,” he laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it. “There’s definitely something wrong with both of us,” Fiddleford hushes, brushing his hand through his friend’s fluffy hair (that’s so unbelievably fluffy). “And there’s nothing wrong with that, right?” Stanford breaks away from their (surprisingly long) embrace. He smiles fondly like the village idiot, letting a single-syllable, heartfelt laugh out, “No, there’s not.”


	3. Hyper Chills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: okay, before y'all write in the comments "POTATO FIDDS IS THE ONE WHO GETS ATTACKED BY THE GREMLOBLIN" remember, this is an _AU_ , I'm gonna be messing with other parts of the timeline. okay, got it? good? good
> 
> anyway, enjoy the third chapter!! leave a kudos/review etc, see y'all next update.

 

Stanford awakens with a start. Struggling for air, his eyes dart wildly around the room. It slowly dawns on him that his room is actually a cave transformed into a makeshift shelter. The gory nightmare he had been experiencing  _ was _ just a nightmare after all. He checks his hands, none of his friend’s blood staining the peach of his skin. “Rough night?” Fiddleford’s calming voice ripples through the silence. Stanford looks to find his friend kneeling by the pot of bubbling liquid over a burning fire. He nods meekly in response, shuffling his feet and glowering at the ground. “Figures, you were shaking an’ jerking ‘round in yer sleep,” Fiddleford dismisses, gently stirring the boiling alien liquid around the pot. Stanford fiddles with his fingers, blushing with embarrassment. He never learned how to control his dreams, and it didn't help that they were staggeringly realistic. He shivers at the blindingly strong memory of Bill using his body to hack his only friend and twin brother to pieces. It’s funny how the human mind chooses to remember…

 

“You okay?” Fiddleford asks him cautiously. “I…” the words die in Stanford’s mouth. Fiddleford pours the liquid he had been brewing for the last half an hour into small glass bottles, “S’ okay, ya don't have to talk ‘bout it if ya don't wanna.” Stanford forces a weak smile to show his gratitude, but they both know that the gesture doesn't have the same shine like it used to. He remembers the day Fiddleford brought up his greatest invention, the memory ray up to him after the Gremloblin accident. His arm was in bandages, and his head hurt with agonizing pain. Fiddleford had babbled gleefully about how Stanford was now able to  _ forget _ the terror he saw within the creature's eyes. But he had refused, deeming the machine dangerous. He felt it would've been better to remember why he stays away from the terrible creature. The truth was the he couldn't swallow his pride to give himself a night’s sleep (not like he liked sleep anyway).

 

He really wants that memory ray at the moment. And all he wants to do is sleep, sleep forever. Or, at least, until he’s certain he’ll wake up in his comfy queen-sized bed.  _ Next to Fiddleford...wait, no, that isn't right… _ Stanford debates again in his head whether he should just  _ tell _ him, it’s not like he's got any sense of pride or dignity left in him. “Fiddleford,” Stanford pathetically croaks out after meekly clearing his throat. Fiddleford smoothly turns his head and looks at him, expectantly. 

 

_You insolent fool!_ _He’s expecting something now!_

 

“I…” beads of sweat trickle from his brow.  _ Come on, just say it! It's three words you smartass, three words! You were able to spell  _ ichthyology  _ in year two, you can say  _ I love you _ to him. _ “I… I…” Stanford throws in the metaphorical towel, “I… think we should try to find a civilization… or something like that.”

“O-of course,” Fiddleford answers dismissively. There's a twang of disappointment in his voice, as if he wanted to hear something else. He grabs a knapsack and fills it with miscellaneous items, from weapons to food. Stanford turns away, getting out of the measly excuse for a bed and packs away his blanket-scarf, gripping it tightly.

 

_ My fault. _

 

He remembers the call. The call that came out of the blue. It was a rare occasion, and every time Stanford received a call from that specific number, he treasured it like it were diamonds. But  _ this call _ , from Fiddleford saying that he was getting married, was different. Stanford said he was happy for him, but the soured and disappointed expression painted on his face said otherwise. Despite the pain merely originating from emotion, the pain,  _ the physical pain,  _ in his gut felt so real. But he wasn't surprised. He had chickened out on telling him in college, so wasn't really that much of a surprise that he’d found a girl. 

 

_ My fault. _

 

He remembers coming home to find Fiddleford sobbing by the phone, the communication device dangling from his fingers. Reluctantly, he explained to Stanford that his wife separated from him, that she filed a divorce. And he had comforted his friend (and tried. And failed to persuade him to  _ not _ build a homicidal pterodactyl robot), he really did. But it was a spectacular victory for Stanford. It meant he had a chance…

 

_ It’s  _ my _ fault. _

 

No chance. Stanford has no chance of winning Fiddleford’s affections, not now, not ever. It is shameful to believe he can ask anything from anyone anymore. He wonders, if the theory that multiple timelines exist is true, that if  _ other _ versions of himself are going through the exact same thing. “Ford,” Fiddleford calls sheepishly, “Are you ready to go?” He nods meekly in response, forcing a decrepit smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“The ice looks like stained glass,” Stanford denotes, capturing every single grain of detail that makes the breathtaking picture his eyes record. The shards of frozen water, gradient with shades from cyan to indigo, chime harmoniously as they dance with the wind. “Hey, look at that one,” Fiddleford delightfully remarks, pointing at a perfectly shaped shard of ice that resembles a crudely shaped six fingered hand. Stanford forces an anemic smile, but he notices his own hands trembling in his pockets. Maybe it's just cold… He notices a handful of more ice shards, that are shaped similar to the six-fingered one, but appear as if they’d been… shattered.

 

_ It’s as if it resembles all the versions of Stanford that have, in a sense,  _ fallen _. It’s as if there is a mysterious force destroying them.  _

 

Stanford blinks, once, twice, then eleven times rapidly. “Stanford, do ya ever think you’d fall in love with someone?” Fiddleford asks him suddenly. “I…” Stanford mumbles, averting his eyes,  _ besides you? _ “I-I haven't really thought about it…”  _ That's a lie. _ Fiddleford brushes the hair out of his eyes, clearing his throat, “I mean, I-I  _ could _ imagine you with someone maybe an inch or two taller than you… someone who's good at engineering… someone who's…”

 

_ Me _ .

 

Fiddleford pretends to cough loudly, claiming that he choked on some water, despite the absence of a canteen. Stanford either didn't hear him or just decided to ignore him, continuing to trudge through the snow. Fiddleford sighs quietly, the water in his breath condensing in the low temperature. In his head, he has many things he wants to say, but he bites his lip, not daring to utter a word. They walk, and they walk, without sharing a sound. They've been walking for a while, but they don't bother to keep track of the time.

 

_ BANG! _

 

Stanford freezes, his eyes widening in terror, “W-what was that?” Fiddleford takes out the shotgun he had been hiding in his knapsack, cocking it. He can feel the temperature drop lower down the scale. They don't dare to move.

 

_ BANG! _

 

Stanford flinches as he feels a burning hot stab to his left hand. He clasps it with his other hand and hisses a curse word through his teeth. He can feel warm, sticky blood start to ooze from his hand. Fiddleford’s face goes pale when he notices the blood drip,  _ drip, drip _ . He turns to the trees, yelling obscenities into the void of the forest.

 

Hushed muttering answers him back, one voice sounding frustrated. Two middle-aged humanoid women step onto the scene. “See, Sinali! I told you it wasn't a  _ moordenaar _ ,” one of the strangely human like (aside from the extra pair of arms and pastel magenta skin) being scolds her companion. She wears a brown, thin, unbuttoned leather vest over light yellow shirt, paired with brown trekking pants rolled up three quarters up her legs. Her short and butcherly cut, bronze hair shimmers in the winter light. Sinali, the other, rolls her eyes elegantly, clenching her gun in her second left hand. Every action she makes is orderly and professional, like herself. Her colour-treated bronze hair is tied neatly in a bun, with not a single hair out of place. She wears a black, tightly worn, perfectly buttoned vest over the whitest shirt to ever exist. Her sterling silver business skirt reaches down to the ground. She wears long, perfectly cut diamond blue diamond earrings that dance like wind chimes in the winter breeze. They chillingly wear the same face, but their attire splits them completely apart. If Stanford wasn't so observant, he wouldn't have noticed that they appear to be twins.

 

“ _ De groeten _ ! Name’s Salunu!!” The bubbly and outgoing humanoid greets the two humans warmly, shaking their reluctant hands. Salunu wipes Stanford’s blood off her hand on her pant leg, “We’re  _ zesvoors _ , and I’m assuming you're… what's the word…  _ mensen _ !” Two floating eyeballs appear from behind her stare the humans down, which spooks Stanford, especially. “Augh! Floating eyes!! What happened your eyes!!” He shrieks, cowering behind Fiddleford. Salunu laughs loud and hard, almost,  _ too _ hard. As if it is forced… 

 

“Sister…” Sinali rumbles in a dangerously low tone, “I hope you have noticed that one of them is injured…” Salunu pulls on her shirt collar, “Ah, yes… Sinali, go heal him or something and we'll meet at the library, yes?” Sinali rolls her eyes again, grabbing Stanford’s arm and drags him away with an iron grip, despite his audible protests. Fiddleford watches worriedly, until he is gone. “Come  _ menselijk _ !” Salunu beckons, playfully bouncing through the snow. “I have a name, ya know. It’s Fiddleford,” he begrudgingly follows, muttering curses under his breath.

 

“Look, Fidelford.” Salunu utters for the first time in fifteen minutes. 

“ _ Fiddleford _ ,” he hisses bitterly.

“Yes, that,” Salunu dismisses blatantly, not seemingly caring at all. Her voice drops into a serious tone, “I think it was mistake leaving your friend with Sinali…” Fiddleford cocks his head in bewilderment, “Where’s this goin’?” She takes a big breath, “My dear ali Sinali, she has a history for  _ killing _ .” Worst-possible-scenarios start to play in Fiddleford’s head. He gulps, reaching for some water from his knapsack. “B-but she won't hurt your friend,” Salunu adds hopefully. It doesn't change Fiddleford’s mood.

  
  


_ Titans. Giant humanoid creatures that tower over five-storey buildings. They prey on the blood of human-class lifeforms, but do not possess the intelligence of such beings. There is little information on how or when these monstrous beasts began to exist. They inhabit very few realities, but be wary, for if one catches the scent of your blood, you are most certainly doomed… _

 

“Annnnd I think I’ve lost my lunch,” Fiddleford remarks glumly, gagging at the wretched images of the strange creatures. He slams the book shut and grimaces, “Who goes out of their way to research this shit.” He looks up when he hears the bell by the library entrance ring again, hoping for it to be Stanford who walks through the door. He sighs and rests his head on the table when he sees that it is indeed,  _ not _ Stanford. “Please do not fret, Fiddlefrog,” Salunu carps, putting back unwanted books in their place.  _ I’m gonna fucking punt your arse into the nightmare realm if you get my name wrong one more time _ , Fiddleford angrily yells in his mind.  _ She better get my goddamn fucking name right or so heLP ME GOD!! _  The doorbell chimes again, catching Fiddleford’s attention. His face lightens when he sees Stanford standing by the door.

 

“So this is your library,” Stanford mutters as he watches Sinali check in. He only starts to notice Fiddleford running towards him out of the corner of his eye, and doesn't get enough time to react before his friend tackle-hugs him to the ground. Who would've thought he had that much strength in him. “Ooh, sorry!” Fiddleford meekly apologizes, pulling him back up. “S’ okay,” Stanford grins, giving him a proper hug. He chuckles heartily for the first time since they got sucked into the portal, “I’ve only been gone for an hour, what caused you to miss me that much?” Fiddleford’s smile falters. He stares into the ground so hard that he bores holes into the floorboards, “Somethin’ smells fishy about them.” Stanford glances over his friend’s shoulder to witness the hunter twins conversing with each other. He watches them with narrowed eyes, documenting every single move. “What makes you think that?” he asks, still watching the hunter twins. “I dunno, it’s somethin’ in the way they act,” Fiddleford answers quietly, stepping closer to his friend. He clenches his fist, “Maybe I’m being paranoid, but one acts like a sociopath, and the other acts like a trigger-happy lunatic.” 

 

“I can see where you're coming from,” Stanford asseverates, looking back at Fiddleford, “My feelings about them are mixed too. Plus, based on recent evidence, your guess is probably better than mine.” Fiddleford chortles, noogying Stanford affectionately, “Ass-kisser you.”

  
  


“Annnnd that's about it! Town square, the palace, everything!” Salunu gleams, radiating smiles and happiness from her figure, “What do you think?” Stanford shrugs, his actions filled with reluctance. 

“Frogfrog?”

“ _ Fiddleford _ ,” he gibes, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms. “Yeah, that's what I said!” Salunu dismisses with a jolly remark. “Oh my stars!” she shrieks, her voice hanging at frequencies only dogs should hear, “I nearly forgot Mom’s royal ball!!” Sinali looks to the side and leans against the brick wall of the suburban store, “Mother’s fancy party… I was only starting to forget about it.” Salunu gasps dramatically, shaking her twin sister violently. “How could you!! It's the most important event of the year!! And  _ they _ ,” she gestures towards the humans, “Are most definitely going to come!! They must meet Mom!!” Stanford turns away and curses under his breath. He never had an enthusiasm for parties, and that isn't going to change tonight. “Come darlings!!” Salunu joyfully squeaks, dragging the two men down the street.

 

Boy, she is really getting on Fiddleford’s nerves.

 

She was able to drag two young, healthy men in their thirties from a suburban street back to her home at the royal palace without breaking a sweat. If she hasn't already been pissing off Fiddleford, maybe he would've marvelled at such a talent. But,  _ man _ , they hate being pushed around. “Hokay! Back home again!” Salunu says with delight, extending her four arms majestically. 

 

Fiddleford has had enough of this overly enthusiastic and jolly humanoid woman. He tightly grabs Stanford’s wrist and pushes himself inside, brushing past various palace staff and into the spare room Sinali had given them a key for. He plunges the golden key into the lock, and pushes his way through he door, slamming it behind him. Stanford gingerly caresses his wrist, subtlety blushing. “How can you get someone's name wrong _ that _ many times!” Fiddleford huffs, flopping face first onto the bed up against the wall on the left. He slightly sinks into the covers. Stanford wanders around, finding a basket full of alien fruit, “At least they left us some food.” Fiddleford longingly looks at the food, ravenous. “I―I’m still mad!” he resentfully answers back. A grin appears on Stanford’s face, as he gently places the the basket on the beside table. He swiftly opens the curtains that block the window at the far side of the room, opposite the door, granting themselves a view of the busy alien city. He turns back around looking for the second bed that doesn't exist. “Uh… why is there only one bed?” he asks with trepidation. Fiddleford’s eyes dart between the bed he’s sitting on and the open space next to him, “I thought she-OH MY FUCKING GOD!” Stanford winces at his sudden outburst, feeling that the fault lies with him. Fiddleford forces himself up from the bed, stomping his way towards the phoneset. Stanford slyly retires the the bed, throwing his over coat onto the ground and wrapping himself in the covers. “Wha―! Busy my ass!” Fiddleford angrily curses at the phone. He storms his way towards the door, only stopping at a sudden objection from Stanford. He turns around, his anger temporarily dissipating, “What?”

 

“I… could you―could you stay with me? P-please?” Stanford replies nervously, almost immediately regretting it. Fiddleford completely calms down, sitting himself on the edge of the bed next to Stanford. He smiles lovingly, brushing his hand through his chocolate-brown hair. “Thank you,” Stanford whispers. It is only now that they realise how tired they are, despite only being the afternoon. The power of fatigue drowns them in drowsiness. Stanford is the first to fall asleep, with Fiddleford following not long after. 

 

Later that evening, a couple of hours before the grand royal party being held tonight, Sinali creeps into the room, leaving clean clothes and a beautifully carved glass bottle filled with a strange, orange glowing liquid. She is careful not to wake the sleeping visitors, quickly scribbling a note for them. She smiles as she watches the two sleep in peace, quietly snoring away. She then pulls her eyes away from them, reminding herself to stay focused at the task at hand. Sinali finishes writing the note, then silently creeps out the room, gently closing the door behind her.

 

_ Click, _ the door cannot help but say after being closed. Fiddleford’s eyes snap open, and he cautiously looks around the room, half expecting one of the hunter sisters to jump out from the bathroom or something. He dismisses that thought, as he figures out how to ease himself off the bed without waking Stanford. “Poor baby,” Fiddleford whispers to himself, gently stroking his hair, “For all the bullshit I get from you… and yet I'm still here. Why am I still here? With you?” 

 

He knows exactly why he's still here. With him. He knows why he can't stop coming back, after all this time. He doesn't know whether he's ready to admit it to himself.

 

After successfully getting up without waking Stanford, he notices the items left atop the huge dresser opposite the bed. Before checking out the mysteriously left items, he gently kisses Stanford’s lips, quintriple-checking beforehand that he’s one-hundred-percent asleep. The first thing his hands snatch from the dresser is a handwritten note, neatly composed on a small pastel purple note.  _ Please come to the party. ―Sinali _ , it reads. “Vague,” Fiddleford remarks, shoving the delicate note in his pocket as if it were nothing. He notices the clean dress clothes, folded orderly. He checks the clothes, giving a point to Sinali for getting their sizes and fashion tastes correct. The last thing he inspects is the strange bottle with the even stranger glowing liquid. 

_ All-cure! Counteragent for any poison! _

He slides the vial away in the brown, tattered knapsack hanging from the door hook. He might need it later.

 

Fiddleford sits back down onto the bed, forgetting to quiet his actions. Stanford stirs from his peaceful sleep, “Fidds? What time is it?” Gingerly skimming his hand through Stanford’s hair again, he looks at the clock on the wall, “Ten to seven.” Stanford closes his eyes, altering his position slightly into a more comfortable one, “That royal party’s in fourty minutes. Are we going?”

“Do you want to?”

“No… not really…”

A pause. A pause before Stanford adds, “But maybe… what if they have a spacecraft or something to get home with?” Fiddleford ponders the idea. He glances at the folded clothes on the dresser, and he remembers the note in his pocket, “So we’re going?”

 

“Y―yes.”


End file.
